


There Is No Accounting For Taste

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: Snippets in Time [13]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos is shaken by a "traumatic experience" which he blames on "booze" and seeks platonic comfort from an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is No Accounting For Taste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zoi no miko (zoi_no_miko)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoi_no_miko/gifts).



            Bracieux, with its lush forests and verdant meadows, in which Madame du Vallon maintained her esteemed husband liked to “frolic,” opened up to the maladjusted early morning eye of the master of the house.  Porthos stretched his incredibly muscular back and yawned methodically.  His eyes were trying to focus on a little speck of dust, which looked increasingly like a horse and rider, materializing unexpectedly at his gates.  Suddenly, recognizing the rider, Porthos seemingly flew down several flights of stairs to reach his courtyard, and enthusiastically threw himself at his uninvited guest.

            “You!” he exclaimed.

            “And you!” the other man responded, laughing and entering the unchartered territories of Porthos’s embrace.

            “I missed you,” Porthos confessed jovially, while pressing his companion closer to his massive pectorals.

            “Ow, my ribs, Porthos,” the other man mumbled helplessly into his friend’s flesh, and was immediately released.

            “Sorry, Athos,” Porthos smirked, “I had entirely forgotten how puny you were.”

            “Hey!”  Athos gave his friend an amicable punch to his expansive bicep.  “I’m fully grown where it counts!”

            Porthos quickly pressed his hand to his friend’s lips and whispered in his ear, “Watch your filthy mouth – I’m a married man now!”  Athos nodded in understanding and gave a meaningful look to Porthos’s hand, indicating the latter was free to remove it from his face.  “In that case, won’t you come in?”  M. du Vallon made a ceremonious bow to his old comrade in arms and indicated the entrance.

            “Quite frankly, I’m not feeling up to sullying your peaceful home with my presence,” Athos averted his eyes and picked at pebbles with his foot.  “I was… around and… I knew you lived here, so I couldn’t in good conscience ride by without giving the owner of Bracieux his due respects.”

            “Well, don’t be ridiculous!” Porthos protested.  “I was only joking about your filthy mouth:  I know you can behave in mixed company!”

            “Never the less, I’m not very good company these days.”

            “All the more reason for you to take an immediate lesson from me on how to _become_ good company!”  Athos still hesitated and cast suspicious glances towards the château.  “And you still need to eat.”

            “I’m not hungry,” Athos tried.

            “I’m not negotiating with you,” Porthos said, gently pushing his friend towards the door in such a way that Athos practically tumbled through it.

 

            Madame du Vallon, as would be expected of a lady of her age, very easily read in her dear husband’s demeanor his great desire to be left alone with this dusty scepter from his military past, and therefore, she politely excused herself half way through breakfast and retired to her rooms.

            For a few moments, Porthos appeared oblivious to the fact that anything had changed in the room, and he continued to masticate his food with precision and ardor.  Athos, his head resting in one of his hands, watched his friend in silent admiration and with a phantom of a smile on his lips.

            “Wine?” Porthos suddenly came alive and lifted his eyes away from his plate.

            “No, thank you.”

            “What?  Who ARE you?”

            “I’ve… uh…. Sort of given up drinking?”

            “ _When_?”

            Athos lifted his eyes as if searching for a calendar and bit his lips.

            “Oh… a few weeks ago.”

            “ _WHY_?”  Porthos leaned in over the table, skewering his companion with his gaze, which Athos found increasingly difficult to hold.

            “It’s nothing,” Athos finally mumbled.

            “Oh, it’s something, all right!”  Porthos extended his steak knife and gingerly prodded his comrade in the chest with it.  “Tell me.”  Athos snickered.  “Tell me,” Porthos repeated, not averting either his gaze or the sharp implement.

            “I see you’re not above employing torture to wrest a confession from me?”

            “You’re my friend.  Friends tell each other things.”

            “In _this_ company?” Athos laughed and then shaded his eyes with his hand and spoke, more to the table than to Porthos, “I… um… had an encounter that I would not have had… if I were sober.”

            Porthos almost choked on his food, and then, extending his knife-wielding hand so that the blade was still pointing right into the chest of Athos, he exclaimed in his booming voice, “Oh my god!  You slept with a woman!”

            “Shhh!”

            “You did!  You went to Vagina Town!”

            “Porthos!”

            “Ah hah hah!  Was she pretty?”

            “I am not discussing this!”

            “Hah hah!  I bet she was!”

            Athos shook his head in utter desperation and dropped his face into his hands with a resigned groan.

            “What?!” Porthos shrugged with incomprehension at his friend’s obvious embarrassment.  “Was she not as pretty as Aramis or something?”

            Athos threw open his arms and allowed his head to fall with a loud thump to the dining table.  Then he covered his head with one arm, as if to protect it from the torrential downpour of Porthos’s glee, and extended the other hand towards his laughing companion’s face.  Porthos suppressed his laughing fit, albeit with a great amount of difficulty, and cleared his throat.

            “Ahem… change of subject then…”  Porthos sent something that looked suspiciously like a whole bird down his gullet. 

            “Since you brought him up,” Athos started cautiously, “Have you heard from the Abbé lately?”

            “Right,” Porthos mumbled, “Like I’d tell you where he is so that you can go kill him!”

            “Excuse me?”

            “What?”

            “You _know_ where he is, don’t you?!”

            “I do not!”

            “Porthos, lying does not become you!”

            “Er...,” Porthos felt caught and he chased the bird down with a long swallow of wine.  “Well… I _might_ know where he is.  But if I tell you, you must promise not to kill him!”

            “What’s all this talk about me killing him?  Why would I do that?” Athos pinned his companion with a look.

            “Well, you _are_ sort of known for killing the people who break your heart, aren’t you?”  Athos shot up from the table.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Porthos quickly added.  “I’m an asshole.  Please sit down.  Are you _sure_ you have given up drinking?”

            Athos dropped back into the chair.

            “I am about to start again,” he sighed.

            “Excellent!” Porthos exclaimed joyously.  “I have some really great Anjou that I just had delivered.  You will love it!” He enthusiastically poured Athos a very full glass.  “Plus, I’ve started to collect some resplendent wines.  All for you, by the way.”

            Athos looked up, feeling himself on the verge of tears.

            “Why are you so good to me?” he asked, accepting the glass from his friend’s hand.

            “Because I am very fond of you, obviously.”

            “Well,” Athos cocked his eye brow, “I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”  And he drained the contents of the glass as his eyes acquired a slow, simmering sparkling.  He pushed the empty glass across the table towards Porthos, and grinning widely, continued, “Now, with regards to not murdering Aramis…”

            “One day Mousqueton was out on an errand in Paris and guess whom he bumped into?”

            “This is related?”

            Porthos nodded.

            “The imbecile Bazin.”

            “Very good!”

            “I have amazing powers of deduction,” Athos shrugged, and received another refilled glass of wine.

            “Yes, it was your favorite lackey.  And he, apparently, is much less suspicious of my own lackey than he is of any of the rest of us.  He talked up a storm!  It was like you could not shut him up, according to Mousqueton!”

            “Where is Aramis?”

            “I’ll get to that.  Patience is a virtue!”

            “When have you ever known me to exhibit it?”

            “You still have not promised me not to hurt him, you know.”

            “What do you care what I do to Aramis, anyways?”

            “He’s my best friend!” Porthos exclaimed, offended.  “Just like _you_!  Cheers, by the way.”

            “Cheers.”  Athos emptied another glass.  “I am not promising not to hurt him, but I will give you my word that I will not kill him.  Good enough?”

            “Hmm,” Porthos appeared actually pensive.  “You know, a part of me actually thinks he _wants_ you to find him!”

            “Why would Aramis want me to find him?  So that I could kick his face in?”

            “Not the face!” squealed Porthos.

            “Not the face!” they both repeated, in unison, and broke out into a fit of laughter.  Having finished with this joint outburst of mirth, Porthos refilled their glasses again.  “Well, I don’t know.  I mean, why else would he move to Noisy-Le-Sec?”

            “He’s in Noisy-Le-Sec?!”

            “Oops,” Porthos turned red and toasted Athos again with a sheepish grin.  “Please go easy on the… face.”

            “That _dick_!  So close to Paris this whole time!”  Porthos was guiltily twirling his mustache.  “Has he written you?  He’s written you, hasn’t he?!”

            “You’re not getting another word out of me,” Porthos stated, demonstratively putting both hands over his own mouth.  “I had forgotten that you hold your liquor monumentally better than I do.  Despite being puny.”

            Athos got up from the table and put his hat back on.

            “That’s only a few leagues from Paris.  I’ll probably reach it by sun up tomorrow.  Just in time for Sunday’s Mass.”  He grinned, maliciously.

            “Remember your promise!”  Porthos got up to walk his friend to the door, still nervously playing with his facial hair.

            “I will.  But Porthos… you be careful with that one!”

            “No, _you_ be careful with that one!”

            “What’s he going to do to me?  He’s already ripped my heart out once.”

            Porthos pulled Athos into another bone-crushing embrace and whispered in his ear prior to letting him go, “Just remember, you’re _both_ my favorite people.”

            “Bull _shit_ ,” Athos replied, laughing as he was pulling away.  “The _Gascon_ is your favorite!”  And he leapt into his horse’s saddle.

            “Get out of here!”

            “I’m leaving!”

            “Don’t forget to write!”

            “Yes, mother!”

            “And no murdering!”

            “HAH!”

            Porthos watched the galloping silhouette until it disappeared in a cloud of road dust.  Finally, he turned around and walked back towards his luxurious abode.  Madame du Vallon greeted him at the entrance by offering her cheek to be kissed.

            “Did you have a good visit with your friend?” she asked.

            “I either just helped make two people very happy, or one person very dead,” Porthos replied cryptically.  His wife gave him a quizzical look.  “My vote is with happy!”  Porthos looked back at the road, upon which not even a shadow of the rider remained.  “Hm,” he added to himself, “Fifty/fifty.”

 

 


End file.
